Ephialtes was determined to be that somebody, but the odds were heavily against him. What forces he could muster were few and of little value, being mere militia and the old men and little boys of the militia at that. Still, Ephialtes gloried at the challenge. He would finally get to fight. Now was his chance, his chance to show Memnon and the rest of them that old as he was, this aged veteran had at least one good fight left in him. An army of sheep his cobbled together force might be, but it would be led by a lion.
He prayed it would be enough to save the city, even if it meant it would be his last fight. And if not, thought Ephialtes as he strapped up his shield and grabbed his spear tightly, at least he would die as a soldier should – not in his bed or watching from a tower, but in the line of battle, fighting Alexander.
While Ephialtes ran about urgently trying to muster up enough men to meet Nicanor's landing, Aristophanes fell in with a group of young archers who had answered that call. Although not much more than a boy himself, he was easily the oldest of the half-dozen bowmen by several years. It was evident from their rather poorly-made, old bows and well-worn quivers that these were not trained soldiers, or even members of the city militia. At best, they were country lads used to hunting birds and small game, who had been driven to take shelter in the city when the Macedonians fell upon their farms and villages.
“Stick close to me, boys,” Aristophanes said calmly, with an air of command that was as foreign to him as the city in which he found himself. “Your job is not to die for your country, but to make those other poor dumb bastards die for theirs. We are archers, and we have no need to get up close and personal – that is the job for the lads in bronze armor with the pointy sticks and swords. Our duty is to cover them, and to cut into the numbers of Macedonians coming out of the boats. Understand?”
The young boys, each of them eager to prove himself, either mumbled or nodded in agreement. They gave Aristophanes an unqualified respect he had never received, not even from his friends and fellow soldiers back in Thebes. He knew that their illusions about the glory of battle were about to be shattered, if they had not been already, as few in the city remained ignorant or unmoved by the horror of war. In a way Alexander had schooled them all, and class was still in session, as was evident from his current pair of attacks.
Ari and his makeshift squad of archers had some difficulty getting to the harbor. Although the sea breeze drove the smoke from the fires set by Alexander's bombardment of the lower city, many streets had become impassable due to the flaming debris, collapsed buildings and fleeing citizens. Swimming against the tide of panicked refugees, they made little progress. Then one of the boys suggested they get above the crowds, quite literally, by going into a building and from there moving forward by leaping from rooftop to rooftop.
Although Ari was older, bigger and stronger than the boys, this was where they had the advantage over him, and where, because of his game leg and their adolescent agility, he allowed them to take the lead. He struggled to keep up with them, as their exuberance matched their nimbleness, yet they did not move so quickly as to leave him behind. The boys obviously took comfort and strength from the presence of what to them was an “old” soldier.
The rooftop race enabled the small band to reach the harbor much more quickly than had they stayed in the street. They got there long before Ephialtes and whatever force he had organized. As they reached the last row of buildings they could see the harbor laid out before them – and it was a sight to test even the most hardened veteran, let alone a bunch of boyish recruits. Ships were afire or sinking, or both. Sailors were floating, dead or dying, in the water, or struggling to climb aboard a friendly ship or a piece of flotsam as their own vessels went down. Most were merchant crewmen who had tried to get their ships away from the docks and out of the slips into the water in a vain hope of escaping the invaders, lest their ships and with them their livelihoods would be destroyed or lost as prizes of war. Others just wanted to flee what they saw as a dying city. Unfortunately for them, the Macedonians showed no mercy to soldier or sailor, combatant or citizen, and their attempts to escape only hastened them on their journey to Hades.
“We make our stand here, boys,” said Ari, huffing and puffing and grimacing in pain from their rooftop run. “Make use of what cover you can find. Pick your targets, take a breath, hold it, aim and fire. Then duck and notch another arrow before standing back up again. Shoot for their necks, or anywhere you can see unguarded flesh. I want live archers, not dead heroes. And you, what's your name,” he said, pointing to the shortest and most likely youngest of the boys, “come here. I have a special and very important job for you.”
As the others drew arrows from their quivers, Ari could see that these were not war arrows but hunting arrows, good for skewering rabbits or bringing down pigeons, but incapable of penetrating leather vests or thick linen shirts, let alone bronze chestplates.
“Aim at their arms, their faces, or their legs,” he shouted. “Your arrows won't do much good anywhere else.” He then turned to the young boy he had called to his side. “I asked you what's your name,” he said kindly, even gently.
“P-P-Paris, sir,” he said nervously, tugging a forelock in respect.
“Well,” said Ari with a smile, “you have the perfect name for an archer, don't you? Well, remember, it was Paris of old from Homer's tales who took down the most vicious warrior of his day, and with a single shot – right to the one tiny spot on the giant's body where he was vulnerable, the heel.”
“Y-Y-Yes, sir,” Paris replied, “or so my father tells me...or, rather,” he said, starting to sob, “he used to tell me – before the Macedonians killed him.”
Aristophanes felt the boy's pain, and it hit him hard, harder than anything had since the day he had seen Alexander's men burn Thebes to the ground. “Well, I am sure he is watching you now, and that you will do him proud, but not there, with the others,” he added, as he pointed to the rest of the boys who were already sending a plunging fire into the enemy boats. “You have the most important job of all. Your job is to guard our backs. I want you to stay at the back of the rooftop, away from the edge facing the sea.”
“But how will I shoot any...”
“That is not your job. You stay here, keep an arrow knocked and ready, and keep watch. If any Macedonian comes up the stairs or climbs up onto the roof, you yell out a warning – and then drill him, right between the eyes, okay? Can you do that?”
“Y-Y-Yes, I can,” Paris stuttered nervously, “but I want to fight...”
“You will be, and in a very special way. By guarding our backs, the rest of us can fire away, without fear or worry. Believe me, when I say your job is the most important of all, I mean it. Understand?”
The boy nodded, knocked an arrow and stepped back to where he could see the hole in the roof through which someone might climb. From there he could also look down the alleys on either side and to the rear of the two-story building upon whose roof his friends were making their stand. With Paris at his post, Ari took up his own bow, and drew one of his arrows, arrows whose steel tips could bite through all but the thickest bronze armor. Time to kill some Macedonians, he said to himself.
“This one's for Thebes!” he screamed as he let fly his first shaft – which sunk deep into the neck of a Macedonian officer, sending him tumbling from the prow of his trireme and into the murky, bloodied waters with the rest of the dead and dying.
“This one's for my father, you Macedonian bastards!” he cried as he drew and loosed the next arrow into the mass of men coming ashore.
“And this one's for me!”
55
Miletos
Alexander at the Gates
Alexander had remained remarkably and unusually calm throughout the early stages of the battle. Rather than leading from the front and racing to become the first man upon the walls of Miletos, he had shown uncharacteristic restraint. Strangely and seemingly detached from the hectic horror of bombardment and slaughter, Alexan
der had advanced at a measured pace, halting now and again to order the red flags raised, and to watch as his men surged forward into the abattoir that was Miletos. He remained so even after the flags flew from the Old Citadel Hill to order the fleet to begin their invasion into the harbor. Alexander remained unmoved as showers of stones and flaming munitions streamed over his head and into the city, shattering buildings, crushing bones and setting humans and homes alike ablaze. Not the roar of the war engines or the battle cries of his soldiers disturbed his trance-like serenity. It was as if he was above it all, detached from all earthly concerns, and the sounds of war muted almost to silence.
Then something or someone began to intrude upon his tranquility. He heard a noise, no, a voice, and then felt someone's hand on his shoulder, shaking him to get his attention. Still, nothing disturbed his reverie until his face tingled from a slap – a hard, strong, nasty slap delivered by perhaps the only man who would dare to strike the king, let alone live to tell of doing so.
“Parmenion? Parmenion? What the...” he said quizzically, his eyes and thoughts finally coming into focus on the old man in blood-stained armor before him.
“The attack is faltering, Alexander,” said Parmenion with great concern and a tinge of exasperation in his voice. “The first three waves are spent, and there are so many dead and dying on the field that our next wave has refused to go forward. Alexander, we have no choice but to fall back and regroup.”
“Fall back?” mumbled Alexander, still in a bit of daze. “Regroup? No, no, Parmenion...”
“We must retreat, my King. Our men have done all they can this day. Give the order to pull back. That is what I would do. That is what Philip would do.”
If the slap on the face and the shaking of his shoulders had begun to awaken him from his walking slumber, the very mention of his father's name shocked him awake, as if he had been stung by a hot needle.
“I am not Philip,” scowled Alexander, petulantly, “nor am I you,” he growled. “I am Alexander. I am the son of a god. I am Achilles reborn,” he said, his voice rising louder and angrier with each breath. “I do not retreat!”
“Maybe you don't, lord,” said Parmenion as he spat a bit of blood, “but your men have to. They can do no more. They are spent. The army is spent.”
“We shall see about that,” roared Alexander, his eyes suddenly ablaze with an unholy fire. “Where are these cowards who refuse to go forward?” he shouted in anger. “Where are they? Show them to me!” he screamed. “Show them to me!”
Parmenion, too exhausted to argue and too familiar with Alexander to waste what energy he had left in doing so, simply pointed toward the camp. A mass of soldiers, obviously uneasy and visibly hesitating, just milled about at the edge of the battlefield. They moved only to open their ranks to each group of bloody, injured and wounded men who came stumbling back from the front, a front none made any move to go toward, despite the haranguing of their officers.
“Macedonians!” shouted Alexander, as he galloped back to meet them. “Macedonians! Why do you linger here, when your brothers call to you to finish the task they have begun! Will you stay here, idle, cowering in your tents while your comrades gain all of the glory! Will you let them have their pick of women and treasure, and leave none for you to claim!”
Up and down the line he rode, tearing off his helmet so all could see the anger and fury in their king's face. “Who will come with me! Who will come with their King! Soldiers of Macedonia! Who will dine with me in Miletos tonight!”
Whether it was his words or the sheer force with which he delivered them, the Macedonian shirkers heard the call of their king. With shouts and war cries of their own, they surged forward, racing him and each other to see who would be the first of them into the city. The sound of their charge shattered the air, just as the pounding of their feet seemed to shake the very ground. Alexander's men in the breach and at the wall heard it, and felt it, as did Memnon's inside the city.
Their own hearts already fit to burst from the exertion of the struggle, the Greek mercenaries who had held the breach so long began to waiver at the sight and sound of fresh hordes coming up, and over, and through the wall. Even before Alexander and his reserves struck their line, the mercenaries broke. As they fled, they swept the Persian archers along with them. Only a few groups of soldiers kept their shields towards the Macedonians, and even they fell back as they did so.
Dimitrios and those around Memnon were the last among them to retire. Yard by yard they went back, stabbing and slashing at each step. Their stance, however, was futile, as waves of Macedonians swept around them, their minds fixed on the women they would rape, the treasures they would plunder and the slaves they would claim.
“It is no use, General,” Dimitrios shouted. “You will only die if you stay here. We have to go, and go now!”
“You're right, Dimitrios,” said Memnon with a sigh, his heart now as weary as his limbs from the overlong fight. “Let's make a run for it, back to where the peninsula narrows, between the temples and the South Agora. We'll make our next stand there.”
Memnon gave the command. The few men still with him fell back into a nearby alley, turned about and began a weary jog back into the lower city and north, toward the narrows. As they did, small groups of men who had left the line but retained their weapons joined up with Memnon's band. Fortunately there was little pursuit, as Alexander's men thought only of the rewards they could reap now that they were inside the city. Even Alexander had little luck in cajoling his men to chase after the defenders. No words he could shout nor gestures he could make could distract them from their greed, their lust, and their desire to seize their hard-won rewards.
Ever back went Memnon, his ranks not so much swelling as congealing around him. Tired, and battered, and bloodied as they were, the mixed group of Greek mercenaries, Persian archers, and city militia still saw in him a beacon of hope, a rock upon to base their chances for survival, and perhaps even victory.
Their numbers grew as they went north toward the narrows, as did their courage.
And then the Macedonians crashed into them. Not from the south, where they had been fighting them all day, but from the north. From the harbor, where Nicanor had come ashore in all his power.
56
Miletos
Temple of Athena
Aristophanes and his young archers took a severe toll of Nicanor's sailors and the soldiers they landed, but for every man they took down, ten more ran past them, flooding through the streets from the harbor into the city. What few men Ephialtes had sent to block those streets had been swept aside, washed away in a sea of armed men eager for plunder and sport. As the tide of invaders reached deeper into the city, Aristophanes and his bowmen found themselves cut off, their perch on the rooftop an island in the swirling maelstrom of Macedonians.
“I think we've done all we can do here, lads,” he said to the youngsters, each of whom were down to their last arrow or two. “It's time for us to be going. You,” he added as he pointed to the youngest archer, the one whom he had set to watch their backs, “do you know a way out of here?”
“They've cut us off from the citadel,” the little lad replied, trying his best to disguise the fear in his voice. “But I think we can go toward the lower city, into the temple district.”
“All right, then. If that is our only way out of here, then that is where we will go,” he replied, pausing only to let fly his final shaft. “And since you made the choice of where we run, then you can lead the way. The rest of you,” he continued, waving his hand to grab their attention, “follow him.”
“Where do we go after we get to the temples?” the youngest asked.
“You go home. You find your families. See if you can keep them safe – or find a way out of the city. You have done more than most citizens of Miletos today – but now it is time to look out for yourselves, and for those you care about.”
The boys looked at one another, each afraid to be the first to leave, lest their fr
iends think the less of them, yet each, in their hearts, were more than ready to leave the rooftop. Aristophanes allowed himself a tiny smile, for he recognized what those boys were feeling – which was the same thing he had felt in the battle line at Thebes.
“It's all right, boys. It's all right. Go...go! Before it's too late, go!”
And go they did, except for the youngest.
“I told you to go, boy, and to lead the way for the others.”
“I'm staying with you, sir,” he replied, with a tremble in his voice. “Besides, the others know the city as well as I do. They'll find their way home.”
“And you?”
“I don't have a home here to go to, remember? I told you, the Macedonians burned our farm. We've been living on the streets here, moving about, getting by with odd jobs and handouts. I haven't seen my father or my sisters since yesterday, when the stones and fireballs really started to pound the city. I've nowhere to go, and I wouldn't know where to look for them. So if it is all right by you...”
A Captain of Thebes Page 34